is there such a thing as joy i don’t know what does the experience feel like is it velvety like your graying pubic hairs tickling my back does it taste like your Jack Daniel’s tongue with a Winston smokey chaser down my throat i want to say it looks like your strong rough hands with tiny scars on the tops and intricate lines on the palms of your warrior hands does joy smell like your sweat fossil grease gun powder breeze and the wind of America in your hair i bet joy sounds deep and blue like when you recite beautiful lies in my ears
Poetry
memorandum
would it make life easier for you if i said outloud what i’d rather just share with you
would it make you a bigger man if i would publish all of my missteps and ineptitudes
do you deserve to know how much you mean to me the tears i’ve shed the drugs i dared to impress you
do you care about my thoughts my feelings my decrees or what i see around this word
if what you want is to fuck and bolt pretend that there was nothing wrong
if all you want is to get a title of renaissance man a golden plaque with gilded letters and pretty words
that’s not really me i’m now buried in a cold dark life locked in under the headstone you chiseled for me etched with nothing meaningful
the will nots
this is your city filled with pigeons dogs and the likes of you children i have bred wild children of the zodiac keepers moon howlers zoo keepers of your selves
through my gutters there has never been a dainty lady that has crossed i am not bent to subscribe to what chains me daughter here are my children
waste makes haste to a life that is riddled by pain we are strong we are one but we can’t be here forever keep me i am your queen little angels in designer jeans
forever rip roaring renegade chingona silver screen teen dream exalted to the clouds of gasoline el lay dismay you will not subscribe to fantasy when i am right in front of you
kleiner clown
stars twinkle quietly pretty shards of diamonds distorted by millions of eons away from my finger tips
surfing in my mind thinking of my mom Lou Reed starts to rise and my heart falls apart
the bitter melancholy comes in sputters black roses start to wilt
thoughts float about in icy sky line no snow or eastern blocks in California
my mother where did she go where was i left to the mercy of the gravity among the milky way
Klaus Nomi sits in shiny triangle black space to my right singing opera lullabies
the water from my eyes wells up but doesn’t spill instead it boils down to dust which i use to bury myself no more lingering on
reading books of talismans in the pitch of the darkest part of night purple pinks blues and blacks
with the soot from the bottom of my foot i draw a wide smile upon the center of my soul
where in daylight for your pleasure will always be radiant
ain’t what she used to be
in youth i’d run with a pack of wild dogs now they Netflix it
we’d howl at the day and bark at the sun
night time our turn to wag hell out of the city
where did my vicious rockin’ pack go Xerox Corp CEO famous music boys political party hardies Cheetahs lead dancer girl
tax filers line followers at the DMV mimosas on Sundays and tea with the Queen
no more mashing heads smoking drinking or raging party over here throw up over there look out the cops are coming mates!
Ben Gay’s my friend supporting me as i reach to grasp the Prevagen
my leather and spikes traded for breathable organic fabrics and compression socks
alas my lover’s tats aren’t where they used to be but in between snores and farts he says don’t worry babe neither are your tits
longing
on the shore where it is quiet
the people gone for the night
but only the echo of their laughter
tangled up in the ebb and flow of the tides
the foam crackles on the scrumptious sand
my toes drill into the warmth of your shore
a sensualness seeps through the pores of my skin
because that beautiful he moon above me
with glorious pewter rays of light
directs my memories of you
who are of the universe now
i still stand here alone on earth
walking with the sons of Cain
sentenced to miss you exclusively
the twelve golden stars to weep they must
to bear witness of what the polarities
of our world have done to my anemic heart
this land were my feet don’t touch
tell me please what are my charges
will the grains of sand
who lavish in the waters of rebirth
rebuke our love as well
lady Blue release me
to swim about in your sea
and race my soul toward the last sunset
Bell and Howell
the sun slides down
lays her golden head
on Dodger mountain
i look around the apartment
notice that i don’t have much
just a few books
electronic essentials
some cooking utensils
work files and water color trays
an old nonoperational
Bell and Howell
and i wonder
was it ever
my intention
to live like an old
widowed bitter sailor or
to be a neat little wife
to have douching schedules
and cook kosher Shabbat dinners
and worship at the west side Temple
roll with the punches like ladies do
claw at my chest with dignity
and gasp at the lukewarm horror
that Stanley cheated on Sherryl
while my praised dentist husband
works her very late most nights
or was it ever my intention
to be rich and famous
with lovers of all intersections
and gleefully snort exuberant amounts of blow
while getting handcuffed away to the station
wearing my sexy Nirvana ripped collar t shirt
now stuffed away in my mid week LA night
freckled with hoarse tooting car horns
and blinking half dead street lights
i breathe deeply and smile
wondering what my intentions
will be when i grow up
and painfully emancipate from this
spiritually bereft confusing mess
that squeezes me tight
as she coyly stands
quietly in front of
that old thrift store
Bell and Howell
meine patina
Buk it’s 2020
my hero Hanky baby
and i’m still alive
these last few days
i’ve surveyed her face
our whore saint city
don’t fret she loves us still
these last few days
i’ve driven by
the schools i’ve been in
i don’t remember a damned thing
my first day of pre school
i was late
on account my dad had to wait
in the Mobil lines for five hours
hey Buk
do you remember
these last few days
every grade year the same old shit
the Pilgrims the marches the maths the farces
the Nina the Pinta the Santa Maria
Sesame Street Hee Haw Fat Albert and Lawrence Welk
and by the time Ronnie Raygun came around
i was branded diagnosed exposed and pigeonholed
the patina of fine psychobullshitary
casted on my soul
these last few days
intuitively speaking Buk
i don’t feel its right to blame
after all i have a conscience
id ego and a touch of naughtiness too
i don’t want to go down that way
remember the time over on Las Palmas Ave
when i called the principal
the devil’s panty liner
i had more class
than to just call her a knit wit
verbal theatrics have been
my little blue bird
these last few days
my bones hurt more
i linger by the antioxidants
and pay some attention
to the collagen talks
my hair line fractures
from the days of Face
are bald and angry
so i take turmeric supplements
during the day
these last few days
the stains of my sins
are rinsing away
leaving a fall hued patina
glazed on my spirit
these last few days Buk
the beer bottles on the streets
cigarette butts and paper sheets
blowing in the wind
make me feel sentimental
where has most of my life gone
is this what happiness is
to feel the bumps upon my skin
the knuckles of my hands
being cupped by my finger tips
as i walk under the bridge
where the many roads
to numbness took me
these days i swear Buk
i have felt
an orgasmic magnificence
flow through my veins
but there are still
some challenges
Christmas Eve 93′
hot chocolate candy canes almond cookies apple wine
red bra black leather pants black stilettos two blue eyes
one green eye hazel on the left scratches cuts and bruises
he wonders how she got em’ but too afraid to ask
instead he holds her tighter cus in the end she’s always gone
in the middle of the night he gets up pees and scratches his ass
just big boy that no bride could tie down
she slightly opens up her mouth gaping like a baby bird
and he sneaks quietly into her arms catches a whiff of patchouli from her hair
two wet paper winged angels just hoping for some love
hesitant
it doesn’t seem so long ago
that i smoked some cloves
was listening to the Pogues
and drifted into some world war
that i’ve only seen in film
over at Grauman’s Chinese theater
my blues are turning black
and though i opted out of methadone
it never meant that i was strong
will i ever say farewell and laser off the scars
of the circumstances of our battles
at two i’m getting up to pee
the midnight birds are wrapping up
the roosters will shortly crow their song
across the street with the old Japanese couple
i like to think that yesterday’s gash was really a fluke
but the book teaches that we must be quite honest
not being responsible enough to make a decision
i straighten out the linen closet instead
until the sun washes away my pain with her golden arms of fire
words less spoken 